


Play Forgiveness

by museaway



Category: Smallville
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Future, Amnesia, Falling In Love, Finding reasons to call Superman, First Time, M/M, President Lex, Romance, Smallville Big Bang, State Dinner at the White House, Weekend at Camp David
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:39:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The call comes in when Clark is drunk on sleep and his face is buried deep in the pillow. <em>"The President requires your assistance." </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> Clark's middle name (which is either Joseph or Jerome depending on your author) is Jerome in this story as an homage to [dolimir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dolimir), a long-ago fandom friend who wrote one of my favorite Clex stories, _The Lazarus Gap_.
> 
> Thank you to [Eccentrically_Peculiar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eccentrically_Peculiar) for going over this several times and giving me a kick in the canon! I haven't written _Smallville_ in nearly ten years, and I ask that you graciously overlook any remaining canon errors. I also know _nothing_ about living in the White House, so just pretend the details are plausible.

 

 

 

 

> "You sit there in your heartache,  
>  waiting on some beautiful boy to—  
>  to save you from your old ways."
> 
> \- The Killers, _When You Were Young_

***

The call comes in when Clark is drunk on sleep and his face is buried deep in the pillow. It's pancake flat, wedged between his shoulder and his neck. One benefit of his Kryptonian heritage is his skin's inability to remember pillow creases, which is good because he always sleeps face down and most calls come like this one in the middle of the night. His eyelids raise, heavy and dry. The number is blocked. He answers out of habit. He's half asleep, his legs like dead weights as he yawns and rolls out of bed. His feet hit the carpet. He needs to vacuum. It's 3:32 in the morning, and Clark is tugging on the spandex uniform he'd balled up and thrown in the hamper. He needs an in-unit washing machine in his next apartment. Lois used to take care of the laundry. It's been a few years since he's had to think about whether his clothes are dirty or clean. It's not the same since she moved out. He's still adjusting to bachelorhood.

He's surprised she didn't want to keep the apartment. He was willing to move out, but she mumbled something about too many memories and wanting a clean slate. She left with two suitcases and a box of kitchen gadgets, her laptop, and cell phone.

"It's not that I don't love you," she said. "I just...can't." Somehow, he understood what she meant.

He sleeps better with her gone. It was hard admitting that at first, but without her kicking him when she sleeps, he's able to get a few hours between calls. This is the first night in a week he's gone to bed before eleven. Not bad. Maybe the crime rate is finally dropping in Metropolis. That or this is the calm before the storm, and the universe is setting him up for a week from hell. His exhaustion is fading as he pulls on the leggings—Chloe calls them tights, but they are definitively _leggings_ —and fusses with the zipper on his back. His next uniform needs to zip in the front or side. It's almost impossible to get dressed by himself, but he manages over his shoulder in the mirror.

Clark assumed the call would come sooner. It is inevitable, he supposes, just as it was inevitable that Lex would hit him with a car all those years ago. He is Superman, and Lex Luthor is head of the executive branch. Surely he would use their long-faded relationship to his advantage.

_"The President requires your assistance."_

Lex had always said they'd be the stuff of legends, but this wasn't what Clark thought he'd meant at the time. Of course, Clark had been fifteen, and Lex might as well have hung the moon.

He glances at the clock; it's 3:37 am.

_"He'd like you to come to Washington immediately. If it's more convenient, we can send a helicopter."_

At least she didn't use Lex's first name.

How long has it been since he stood in Lex's presence? Tugging on his boots, Clark tries to recall the last time they spoke outside an official capacity. He attended the inauguration, obviously, as he'd attended the one for the outgoing president. His presence was not only welcomed but expected by the public. It's his duty, he feels, to appease them. Lex caught his eye, nodded at him, and Clark wondered if Lex remembered him at all or had only been briefed on their past friendship.

He supposes the neurotoxin was, in some ways, a good thing. Lex is successful, independently wealthy, a year into his first-term with a 56% approval rating. There is no hint of the emerging mastermind Clark tried to vanquish so many years ago, though there is no hint of their once close friendship either. What is it his mother always says about having cake and eating it? He should write those things down. Taking notes as a reporter has done no favors for his short-term memory. He's overly dependent on a pen and paper.

Sighing, Clark supposes the last time he and Lex stood face-to-face was in the crumbling remains of the mansion, when Lex told him they were destined to be great men together, but as enemies. The last Clark heard, Lex is still pushing for economic reform and more rigid environmental policies. How time changes things.

He wonders if he'll even get to talk with Lex tonight, and he wonders what could possibly be so important that he's got to fly to Washington D.C. at 3:42 in the morning (granted, it's an hour later in the nation's capital). With a glance in the direction of his empty refrigerator and a nod to his equally empty stomach, Clark steps onto the darkened balcony and leaps.

***

Clark is continually amazed by the amount of security surrounding the president. He knows it's necessary, but it still surprises him, even at 34 years old, how violent humans can be. It's ironic that Lex, with his bloody history, is now the one being protected. Once, Clark thought he'd spend his lifetime shielding the world from what Lex Luthor would unleash, but it seems the evil died with Tess and the fragments of Lex's memories.

The rose garden is dimly lit, beautiful even at night and lightly fragranced. When he touches down, his foot on the perfectly manicured lawn, motion-sensor lights shine uncomfortably bright in all directions. From within the guard house, a dog growls. Clark yawns and raises his hands in the universal gesture of innocence, awaiting recognition and further instruction. He doubts the White House receives many visitors who arrive of their own accord within a few minutes of being summoned. The bullets can't scratch him, but he finds the dogs unnerving even though their teeth don't pose a threat. Lois hinted at a puppy for years—he suspected she really meant children—but Clark prefers the quiet of stargazing as a means to unwind. She texted him a picture of a bull terrier a few weeks after she got her own place. _I call him Perry_ , she wrote. He gave her a gift card to a pet store near her apartment. Perry nosed him in the crotch the first time they met.

A young woman in her late twenties, wearing a dark pencil skirt and shadows under her eyes, appears from beside a rose bush and motions him toward her. She speaks into a cell phone, and the dog's barking ceases. She ushers Clark quietly into the building and up a staircase. They pass a few tired-looking interns and cleaning crew, who nod at him wide-eyed. She leads the way to the West Wing Lobby, where he takes a seat on a tailored blue couch and folds his hands together.

"The president with be with you shortly," she says and leaves him.

Clark feels awkward seated beneath the painting of _Washington Crossing the Delaware_ in blue and red spandex, his legs too long for the low sofa. His knees bump the coffee table, so he hastily rearranges the stack of publications he has just knocked askew. His elbow grazes a lamp; it teeters but doesn't fall. He places his hands on his knees and wills his body to remain still. For all his gifts, he's never claimed to be graceful. He wonders if anyone is watching him on security cameras.

"I assumed you'd use the roof."

The voice shouldn't surprise him. When Clark was a teenager, how many times had Lex come to see him in the loft? How many times had an evening ended like this, with Lex's voice pulling Clark from his reveries? Besides, he was summoned to the White House in the middle of the night. The very least the president owes him is the courtesy of facetime. Yet, Clark finds his adrenaline spikes and a lump forms in his throat as he rises.

"Mr. President," he says, glad for the steadiness in his voice that his hands betray. He steels them against his sides and straightens his shoulders.

"Superman."

The warmth, the playful tease in Lex's eyes is notably absent. He's in a gray sweater (often worn, judging from the lightly pilled wool on his forearms) and looks remarkably the same, albeit a few years older. He approaches with a hand extended. Clark is glad that his father insisted on teaching him a firm handshake, by human standards, and demonstrates it with confidence.

"This meeting is strictly off the record," Lex says, and it's a moment before Clark catches the gleam in his eye and finds himself grinning.

"I guess my secret identity isn't so secret," he says.

"Not with my resources," Lex admits and sobers. "I didn't intend that to be an invasion of your privacy. I'm sure you understand: I needed to know about you, if you're someone I can trust. It's a matter of national security."

"I hope you'll keep it to yourself."

"That information doesn't leave this building," Lex assures him, tucking his hands into his pockets. "I guess this is a reunion for you. Unfortunately, what I know of our history comes to me by way of photo albums and personal recollections."

"It's been a long time," Clark says.

"I understand I was something of your antagonist," Lex continues. "I hope we can put that behind us for one night."

"We're both adults," Clark agrees.

"Should I call you Superman, or would you prefer...?"

"Superman is fine, Mr. President."

"Of course. I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here at four in the morning. Come through to my office," Lex says and motions for Clark to follow him. They make a right after the long hallway, and walk straight through to the Oval Office. Clark expects Lex to fall into the executive's chair, but he takes a seat on a red and gold striped couch and indicates that Clark should sit across from him.

Clark waits for Lex to tell him about a suspected terrorist he wants Clark to track down, or a rare artifact the government believes to be Kryptonian in nature, or maybe Lex has finally found out about Connor and wants answers. What he doesn't expect is—

"There's a forest fire burning out of control in Arizona and New Mexico. It's threatening to destroy a half a million acres. I need you to help stop it."

"Okay," Clark says, and he can't help the frown that takes over his face. He's been called to assist with plenty of natural disasters before. He can deliver fire retardant and water more effectively than the human crews, but why is the president the one asking?

"But there's a catch," Lex says, and _of course_ there's a catch. "I don't want the American people to know that you were involved."

"Come again?" Clark says, blinking.

"I've been on the phone with the governors all evening. The state governments don't want the people losing faith in the firefighters' ability to control the blaze, and neither do I. I was hoping you might be willing to do this...unobserved."

"You want me to extinguish the fire but let the firefighters take the credit," Clark says, crossing his arms in the way Lois says makes him look powerful and a little aloof.

"Yes," Lex says. He looks away and smiles while he runs a hand over his scalp. "I told them it was a long shot."

"I'm just trying to understand your motivation," Clark says. "If I don't get credit for this, neither do you."

"I don't expect any," Lex says. He looks back at Clark and narrows his eyes. "Is that why you help people, for the notoriety?"

"No," Clark says, "but it's—" He stops talking and sets his jaw.

"Why you think _I_ would," Lex finishes. He gives a slow shake of the head and sits back on the couch, a surprisingly vulnerable position, Clark thinks. "It's moments like these that make me glad I can't remember the kind of person I was. I don't think I'd like him much."

"You weren't all bad," Clark says.

"Well, no one's _all_ bad," Lex says, "just like I'm sure you're not _all_ good. There's likely a hint of darkness in you somewhere."

Clark doesn't answer.

"The trick," Lex continues, "is recognizing that darkness and not allowing it to control you."

"You really don't remember anything?" Clark asks.

"Tabula rasa." Lex clears his throat. "So, will you help?"

***

Controlling blazes is relatively simple. Remaining unseen, however, is not.

Clark is glad for the cover of darkness, and the fact that it's two hours earlier on the west coast than in Washington. Within a matter of minutes, he's shifted the fire's direction, carried load after load of water from the Pacific to extinguish the flames. In half an hour, the blaze has become manageable for the fire crews. He delivers three more truckloads of water to ensure the fire will not spread further, and he flies away before too much of the smoke clears.

The headlines the next morning call it a miracle. There are no reports of Superman being in the area. Lex invites Clark to stay and enjoy breakfast at the White House when he returns to let him know the fire is under control, but he returns to his apartment just after five. He falls face-first into his pillow, dozing until the alarm rings at six fifteen.

***

The second call comes in on a Thursday, when he's in the weeds on a story about Kansas prison reform. He swears when his cell phone rings and he sees a blocked number. Should he answer? It could be an informant. They often call from blocked numbers he can't call in return. Rising from his desk, he nonchalantly closes the door and turns away from the window.

"Yes?" he answers, keeping his back toward any onlookers.

"Mr. Kent," a woman's voice says. "This is Angela Black calling on behalf of the president. He needs you in Washington immediately. There's a situation in New York."

Clark groans internally and takes a deep breath.

"Okay," he says and hangs up. The story will have to wait. Knowing Lois, she'll cover for him. It won't be the first time. He sends her a text—"had to fly"—and leaves from the _Daily Planet_ roof.

The situation is an impending core meltdown at the number three nuclear reactor at Nine Mile Point. There's been a loss-of-coolant accident. It's too dangerous for humans to remain in the facility, but Clark isn't affected by the radiation. The turbine has stopped spinning and the core temperature is dangerously high. The emergency shutdown system has already been activated, but the decay heat is significant. Clark hears the hiss of steam, the rumbling of boiling water. He operates the emergency water spray system until the temperature returns to safe levels. His arms don't get tired, but he's exhausted once the heat is controlled and humans re-enter the building.

In the end, it's reported as a partial meltdown—the ninth in US history—and Clark once again finds himself standing in front of Lex in the Oval Office.

"Thank you, Superman," Lex says, extending a hand across the desk.

"Mr. President," Clark says.

Lex invites him to stay for dinner, but Clark declines, dreading what awaits him back at the _Planet_. Lex gets out a slip of paper, jots down a number and hands it to him.

"That's my personal line," he says, "in case you call here and aren't able to reach me." Of course Lex would get to keep his phone as president.

"Why would I—?" Clark starts but cuts himself off and nods, folds the paper in half, and holds it in his palm. "No pockets." 

Lex smiles and returns his eyes to the desktop. He doesn't look up again as Clark leaves.

***

It's a month later when he receives the third call. He's at work, seated at his cluttered desk, tapping a chewed pencil against his lips. He has a handful of words typed, and a stack of chicken-scratch notes on his desk. He doesn't work well under the pressure of a looming deadline; give him a collapsing house or a rogue terrorist any day.

His cell phone rings. The number is blocked, but he answers anyway.

Clark arrives at the White House in time for lunch. This time, he lands on the roof, and Angela lets him in through a narrow door. She looks more rested than last time, or maybe it's just that she has on more makeup. She gives him a quick sweep with her eyes (Are his tights crooked? _Leggings_ , he corrects himself. _Leggings_.) and nods to the staircase. He follows her down to the second floor, through a series of hallways, until they are standing in a lobby, this one private and much smaller. She leaves him on another blue couch.

His knees disrupt the magazines again. This time, he does knock over a lamp.

"Crap," he says, bending to pick up the broken remains of the light bulb.

"I've never liked those lamps anyway," Lex says over Clark's shoulder.

"They don't look like your style," Clark agrees. "A little too traditional."

Clark stands, locates a small trash bin, and throws away the pieces of glass.

"Sorry," he says, coming to stand next to Lex. He nods to the empty table where the lamp stood. "I owe you a new one."

Lex looks like the president today. He's in a charcoal suit, likely wool, tailored to his measurements. Clark swallows the lump in his throat.

"Hungry?" Lex asks.

"Huh?"

"Are you hungry?" Lex repeats.

"I thought there was an emergency."

"There is," Lex says. "Lunch is getting cold."

He disappears down the hallway, and Clark follows after him. The West Wing is buzzing with activity today, but Clark is still surprised when Lex motions him toward the residence instead of going to his office. The former president was always flanked by the secret service, even in Clark's presence, but Clark merely notes the security cameras, hears voices behind closed doors. He feels a surge of pride at the fact that, right now, _he_ is Lex's security. Clark gives a friendly "hello" and smile to everyone they pass. This feels so much like Smallville, like being fifteen and following Lex through the mansion, that he has to remind himself that he's Superman right now. Lex is president. This is the White House, and he's here on official business.

Lunch is laid out in a dining room. Lex sits at the head of the table, with Clark to his left. This room doesn't look like Lex either. His Lex, the one he knew growing up, would have ordered the place redecorated. Clark expected the residence to look like the mansion had: dark woods and rich materials. Instead, it feels like a fancy hotel where Lex is staying for a while. He supposes Lex's tastes could have changed. Lex is eying him with a tilted head, unblinking, the way he used to. Clark meets his gaze, and he holds it for five, six, seven seconds until he can feel the blood start to rush into his cheeks. There was always tension between them, a nervous buzz of energy. Clark hasn't felt this in years, like he can't look away, but he has to.

Lex doesn't remember any of that.

Clark coughs and focuses on the food. It's simple baked chicken with roasted potatoes, similar to what his mother would cook, though he doubts the potatoes came from the White House garden. Clark imagined Lex eating sushi and dishes Clark can't pronounce, so he's curious as he watches Lex cut the chicken up into pieces, spear a chunk on his fork with a potato. He leans an elbow just on the table's edge. It's inelegant, incongruous with Clark's memories of him. The few times they'd eaten together, either at the farmhouse or the mansion, Lex's manners always confirmed Clark as a fumbling farmboy. Lex smiles at him and swallows. Clark puts a napkin on his lap.

"There's pie too, for dessert," Lex offers after another mouthful. "Apple, I think, but it might be cherry. Homemade crust, I swear."

Clark stills over his glass of water. He has a vision of returning home from school to find Lex in his well-fitting black suit, leaning a hip casually against the counter, eating a slice of pie as Martha buzzed around him and chatted. "Oh, hey, Clark," Lex always said, as though he hadn't thought to expect him. Is it possible that Lex spoke with Clark's mother? Would he have called her office and asked her to tell him details of his life in Smallville?

This is probably a coincidence. A lot of people enjoy pie. Hell, the _Daily Planet_ sponsors an annual pie-eating contest to raise funds for the Metropolis animal shelters. Besides, what had the doctors said about Lex's memory? There was no statistically significant chance of it returning—something like that. He has the notes at home, somewhere in the back of the small closet with his Smallville High yearbook, a book of photographs, a splinter of wood from the barn. He kept promising Lois that he'd go through all that stuff and store it at the farm in Smallville—there was only so much storage in a one-bedroom apartment—but he never got around to it.

Lex must notice that Clark isn't eating and sets down his fork. He wipes his mouth on a napkin and straightens. His arm falls politely into his lap.

"The kitchen can make you something else," Lex says apologetically. "I should have asked if you had a preference."

"What?" Clark says, looking down at his plate. "Oh, this is fine. I ate a late breakfast."

In truth, his stomach is growling. He pokes at the chicken and takes a bite. It's good, though not as good as his mother's. Still, it's a welcome change compared with another day of not-so-cheap takeout.

"So why did you really ask me here?" Clark says between bites. "I'm guessing it wasn't just to have lunch."

Lex gives a small laugh, dabbing his mouth again, and his eyes widen.

"Actually," he says, "would you believe I didn't want to eat alone?"

"No," Clark answers, but he's...intrigued. This reminds him so much of Lex as he used to be, when Clark was fifteen and life was simple. "Don't you have a whole staff that could eat with you?"

"Sure," Lex says, "but they don't know me."

"And I do?"

"You used to," Lex says. "I understand that you were the only person in Smallville who liked me."

"I wasn't the only person," Clark says. "Chloe always had a soft spot for you, and Lana liked you enough to marry you."

"I don't remember her either," Lex admits and chews on another bite. He swallows and looks out the window before continuing. "I don't remember anything from before. For so long, I thought I would wake up one morning, remember everything. That one day, it would all come back. But it's been seven years, and I have yet to regain so much as your middle name. Your employee record merely lists the initial."

"It's Jerome," Clark says after a pause. Lex raises his eyes to Clark's, gray like his suit. How many times has Clark looked into them?

"I would have thought you'd be named after your father," Lex says. He takes a long drink of water.

Shrugging, Clark forks a potato. "I think it was just a name my mom liked."

"How is your mother?"

"Coping," Clark says. "It was hard on her when my dad died. She gave the farm to me a few years back. I thought about selling it, but the only interested people were developers. I believe in preserving farm space, plus I think mom wants to move back to Kansas after she's done with politics. You used to visit her, you know."

"I see her on the Hill, sometimes. She always says hello."

"She liked you."

Lex smiles at that and folds his hands on his lap. "I don't remember my parents," he says after a minute.

"I never met your mom," Clark tells him, "but I have a lot of memories of your dad."

"Not good ones, I imagine."

"Not all bad," Clark says finally.

"Well," Lex says. "I guess that's something. Pie?"

***

It's not an emergency that causes Clark to send a text message to Lex's personal cell phone for the first time. He's watching the History Channel before work and a program about Alexander the Great is on. Clark grins and pulls out his phone.

>> Your namesake is on tv

It's absurd that Superman would send a message like this to the President of the United States. Clark knows this, and yet he sends the message anyway. Lex did give him the number, after all, and Clark entered it into his phone. Right now, Clark isn't Superman. He's a bachelor crashed out on his couch in loose gray sweats, eating cereal out of the box, and he's bored.

It's forty minutes before he receives a reply. He grimaces as he opens it.

>> Fortune favors the bold.

He has to laugh, shaking his head as he gets up to put the cereal away and wash his hands. He pours a glass of milk and yawns into his forearm when his cell rings. When he glimpses Lex's name on the caller ID, he stops and considers letting it go to voicemail. Curiosity overpowers his nerves, so he accepts the call.

"Hey," he says, sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch.

"Hello, Clark."

"So," Clark says, scratching his face. He feels momentarily fifteen again. "What's up?"

"I'm having the president of France for a State Dinner tomorrow night. I was wondering if you would care to attend?"

Clark shifts into the voice he reserves for Superman, strong and assured. "Of course, Mr. President. I'd be honored."

"Relax," Lex tells him with a chuckle. "I'm not asking you there to attain world peace. I just thought it might be..."

"Helpful?"

"Nice," Lex finishes, "to see you again."

"Oh," Clark says, sitting back. "What, uh. What should I wear?"

"Your choice," Lex says. "You can come as Superman, an honored guest, or if you'd be more comfortable, put on a suit and come as my old friend from Smallville."

"Would I get an exclusive with you out of the deal?"

"Hmm," Lex says, and Clark can hear the grin in his voice. "Maybe it's better if you wear the spandex this time."

"Funny," Clark says, "but you're probably right. What time?"

"Why don't you come by around six? We can catch up before we have to go in."

"Okay," Clark says.

"Bring a change of clothes, if you want," Lex offers.

"Why?"

"In case you want to stay over," Lex continues. Clark swallows. "I can't remember if alcohol affects you."

"Right," Clark says. _Alcohol_. "Actually, I don't drink. It doesn't do much for me, and I don't like the taste."

"Ah," Lex says. "Well, you're still welcome to stay in the famous Lincoln bedroom. I hear it's haunted."

"Tempting."

There is a man's voice in the background. Clark can hear when Lex covers the phone with a hand, asks the person who interrupted him for a minute.

"Sorry," he says into the phone again. "Job hazard."

"Where are you anyway?" Clark asks.

"About 30,000 feet over the midwest."

"Coming for a visit?"

"I wish," Lex says. "Actually, I'll be giving the commencement speech at Met U at the end of April. Maybe we could..."

"Yeah," Clark agrees. "Definitely."

"Not going to wait for me to finish?"

"I figured you were going to suggest dinner," Clark says.

"Dinner or the opera. It's been a while."

"That'd be great."

The voice is back, more insistent. Someone says, "We're about to start the landing procedure, Mr. President."

"I've got to go," Lex says, lowering his voice. "Angela will call you with the details. See you tomorrow?"

"You bet," Clark says. "Bye."

"Goodbye, Clark," Lex says and the call ends with a single tone. Clark stares at the phone in his hand, then goes to grab a shower before he heads to work.

***

Clark wipes the sweat from his forehead as he takes a final look at himself in the bathroom mirror, then walks into the sitting room. Lex isn't there, hasn't yet made an appearance. The neckline on his uniform feels strangely tight, so Clark runs a finger underneath to loosen it. The queasy feeling in his stomach lingers. Maybe it's not the neckline, he considers when he notices his heart rate is elevated. He's chewing the inside of his cheeks ragged.

He paces the room, feeling awkward despite the uniform, and hears Lois's voice in his ear. _Calm down, Kent. You're no good to anyone like this._ He takes a deep breath and counts to ten as he exhales, experiencing a moment of guilt, as he often does when he thinks about her. He touches his bare ring finger, recalling the gold band he used to spin absentmindedly when he was on a long phone interview or waiting in line at the grocery store. He wishes they could have worked. He loves her; it's just that he's never loved anyone as much as he loved—

"Clark!"

He clears his throat quickly, and then Superman is taking over, turning on his heel and extending a hand with confidence.

"Mr. President," he says. They shake, and Lex tucks his hands into his pockets. He's wearing a tuxedo, and his eyes are bright as he regards Clark.

"Can I get you a drink?" he offers.

"Iced tea?" Clark asks. Lex nods and picks up a handset. He speaks quietly, then ushers Clark to the sofa.

"I'm glad you could make it," Lex says, settling a couple feet from him.

"Thank you for the invitation."

Lex motions to Clark's uniform. "You look nice," he says. Clark blinks once, twice.

"Yeah," he says slowly, licking his lips nervously. "Yeah, you too."

The drinks arrive. Clark takes his iced tea and sips quietly while Lex swirls a glass of what Clark assumes to be scotch.

"I hope you don't mind," Lex continues when it's just the two of them again. He crosses an ankle over his knee. The hem of his pants rides up, revealing black socks. Clark looks away. "I've seated you next to the president's husband. Figured you can put your charm to good use."

"If I recall," Clark says, chuckling, "between the two of us, you were the charmer."

"Well, I'm glad _you_ can recall that," Lex says. He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's the smile Clark often sees him give during interviews. The smile is enough to fool the public, a dashing blaze of white teeth, but Clark knows the difference between this and the smiles Lex used to give him in the barn, across the Porsche's console, over a game of billiards.

"I can tell you about it sometime, if you want." He meets Lex's gaze, which widens slightly. "About Smallville and, you know. You and me. What I remember, at least."

"I'd like that," Lex says hoarsely. There is another knock on the door, and Angela enters, her hand on her earpiece. Lex clears his throat.

"President Renard and her husband have arrived," she announces.

"Make sure they're comfortable," Lex says. "I'll come down in a few minutes."

She nods and exits.

"They got here sooner than I thought," Lex says. "There's never enough time in the day."

"Do you like the job?" Clark asks. Lex shrugs, a move he doesn't make for the cameras. Clark feels privileged to see it.

"I won't cry when my eight years are up."

"That confident about a reelection, huh?"

"Well," Lex says with a sly grin, "I'm about to walk into a State Dinner with Superman on my arm. I'd say I'm doing okay."

Clark sputters into his iced tea.

"Is this..." he starts, wiping his mouth and taking another quick sip to clear the tickle in his throat. "Is this a date?"

"Relax," Lex says, slapping his shoulder. "I only meant that the very fact that Superman is willing to attend a State Dinner at the White House with me in the executive's chair will mean a lot to the American people. They have a great deal of faith in you, in what you represent. There will probably be more cameras on you tonight than on me."

"I'm starting to wish I'd opted to wear a suit."

"Then you'd have to face the paparazzi back home," Lex points out. "Either way, your face will be in the papers."

"Remind me again why I agreed to come tonight?" Clark says.

"Because I asked nicely."

This time, Lex's smile is genuine.

***

Clark isn't surprised that Lex can speak French. He's heard him converse in Japanese and German, and even say a few words in Russian. Clark had been sixteen, and it was the first time Clark realized he had a foreign language kink. He thought about the way Lex's tongue had formed around the strange syllables later that night, as he lay in bed, as he often thought about Lex when he fell asleep.

He clasps his hands under the table and turns back to M. Renard, who is intrigued by the idea of what is essentially sanctioned vigilante activity. Does Superman ever sleep? How quickly can he cross the Atlantic? Does he ever accept calls from foreign nations? Clark answers the man's questions, folding his hand carefully around a glass of water—it's a shame alcohol doesn't affect him—and is grateful when the music begins.

Lex invites the president to dance. M. Renard cuts in for the second number, so Lex comes to stand at Clark's shoulder, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand.

"Not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?"

"Better than [a coat closet](http://bit.ly/17S6sKR)," Clark chides, grinning, but the smile fades when Lex just raises an eyebrow at him.

"A coat closet?"

"You used to—" Clark begins. "Nevermind. This is a great party."

"M. Renard seems to enjoy your company."

"Felt like I was giving a deposition," Clark admits. "I think he asked me just about everything there is to ask."

"Did he ask what you've got on under the spandex?"

"No?" Clark manages, his throat suddenly tight. He coughs and drinks quickly from his glass.

"Then he didn't ask you _everything_ ," Lex says and laughs.

***

The president and her husband leave just after eleven. Lex asks Clark to wait in the residence while he takes a quick phone call to Jordan.

"I want to say a proper goodbye," he says. "Just give me fifteen minutes."

Clark gives him forty. Lex shakes him awake on the couch where he's dozed off.

"That took longer than I expected," he says apologetically. "Barring a crisis, I'm yours for the rest of the night." He glances at his watch. "Which ends in eight minutes." He sighs.

"Don't worry about it," Clark says, his voice rough with sleep. "I need to get home anyway."

"I can't convince you to stay for breakfast?"

Clark shakes his head. "We can ghost hunt another night," he says. "After all, you still have seven years in office."

"You have a lot of faith in me," Lex teases.

"Yeah, well," Clark says, standing. "I always did."

Lex is quiet for a moment, then nods. "Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for the invite."

"I'll call you soon," Lex promises. He clasps Clark's shoulder and freezes, pressing his lips into a line. Clark wonders what Lex is thinking, if he's considering hugging Clark or wondering if by touching him, he can somehow absorb the memories he's lost.

Clark is still thinking about Lex's hand on his arm as he falls asleep.

***

Clark blinks, and April is suddenly upon him. _The Planet_ explodes with wedding and birth announcements. Clark is assigned to cover the president's upcoming visit to Met U, and Clark recalls a dinner invitation Lex made him a few months back. Lex hasn't called him in over three weeks, but Clark remembers hearing on the news that he's been in Africa to negotiate trade deals. Maybe he doesn't have cell service on the continent.

With his right pinky, Clark rubs at a pencil mark on his desk.

He considers texting Lex to see about an interview, but he decides that violates his journalistic ethics. He'll attend the graduation like every other reporter within a hundred miles of Metropolis and pray his photographer can get a decent shot.

In anticipation of Lex's visit, Clark pulls the shoebox from the back of his closet and rifles through the contents. He's most interested in the small flipbook of photographs his mother made him when he first moved to the city. There are only a few pictures of Lex. He leaves the flipbook on his coffee table and makes a mental note to bring it with him if they do make it to dinner.

He forgets it, as is customary, but arrives at MetU in time to get a second-row seat. He pushes his glasses up further on his nose and scribbles notes while Lex speaks. Clark still likes to do things the old-fashioned way. His fellow reporters use recording devices and electronic notepads, but Clark prefers the scratch of a pen on paper. Even after the speech is over, the audience having stood during the applause, Clark still has his head bent, squinting at his own handwriting. A familiar voice speaks dryly.

"Mr. Kent?"

He looks up and stares at Angela through his glasses.

"Oh, hi," he says, remembering too late that she's met Superman, not Clark. He straightens. "Yes, I'm Clark Kent."

She smirks, giving a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. She obviously knows who he is. Her voice is low, and Clark notes that the eyes of his fellow reporters are upon him. "The president is waiting for you in the dean's office."

Clark stares at her. She quirks a brow.

"Do you know the way?"

"Sure," he says. "Should I go now?"

"Do you really intend to keep him waiting?"

"No," he says, tucking the notebook into his pocket. "Thanks."

"Mmm," she says and walks away.

Lex is standing behind the dean's desk, looking out the window. An agent in a tan suit coat pats Clark down, gives an extra look at his pen and cell phone, and nods that he's allowed to approach.

"Hey," he says, joining Lex at the window. The dean's office is on the fortieth floor of the skyscraper and has a southern view of the city. The early afternoon sunlight gleams off of the buildings, and Clark is surprised to find that the city appears almost...beautiful.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you this morning," Lex says. "I meant to, but I was—"

"Busy?" Clark supplies.

"Swamped," Lex finishes. "I barely had time to put on pants."

"That would have been quite a graduation speech," Clark says.

"Think it would have improved my ratings?"

"Depends. Have you been working out?"

"Here and there."

"Well, if you still look like you used to, I'd say it probably couldn't hurt."

Lex chuckles and turns toward him. "Are you still up for dinner?"

"I'm starving," Clark confesses. "I forgot to eat lunch today."

"Then it's your lucky day," Lex says, flashing him a smile and motioning to the door. "I know a good place."

"Are you—" Clark begins. Lex turns back toward him, his face expectant. "Are you asking Superman or...me?"

"You, of course," Lex says. "Come on."

They end up in a small Italian restaurant a few blocks from Clark's first apartment. He and his mother had discovered it when he first moved in. It's a small place, pretty nondescript. Clark is surprised Lex knows of it. He expected Lex to take him to one of the upscale restaurants in town, the kind where you need a reservation to get in, but you can't make one unless you call on the first Tuesday of the month and sacrifice your second born. Martini's is family run, a hidden gem, with red and white checkered tablecloths and a cheerful staff. The agents do a sweep of the restaurant before Clark and Lex are shown to a table in the back, behind a folding screen, so they aren't visible from the restaurant's front windows. Above the table is a painting of a woman in a red cape being shot at by angels wielding bows.

"Raphael's _Galatea_ ," Lex says when he notices Clark staring.

"How did you find this place?" Clark asks.

"I _did_ used to live in Metropolis, you know," Lex says, unrolling his silverware and laying the napkin on his lap. "Occasionally, I ate out."

"This just doesn't seem like your type of restaurant."

"Italian?"

"Humble," Clark says. "I figured we'd be at a five-star joint with portions the size of a bottle cap."

"I'm glad I can surprise you," Lex says. A server arrives with a bread basket and two glasses of water. Lex orders the house red; Clark gets coffee. Lex rests his elbows on the table and folds his hands together, leaning his chin on them.

"So," he says. "What should I know about you?"

Clark swallows. "How much do you know already?"

"Well," Lex says, grinning behind his hands, "your name is Clark Jerome Kent, son of Martha and Jonathan, originally from Smallville, Kansas. You moved to Metropolis after graduating Central Kansas University with a 3.8 GPA, majoring in journalism."

"Good so far," Clark says, tearing a breadstick in half and dipping it in oil.

"You've been a reporter for the _Daily Planet_ since you graduated. You married and later divorced a woman named Lois Lane. You're currently single, not even an online dating profile." Lex pauses to take a sip of water. When he speaks again, his voice is a whisper. "And I have it on good authority that you're actually an alien from the planet Krypton, but you know how crazy people can be." Lex winks and sits back in his chair.

"You had someone look up my dating history?"

"Well," Lex says innocently, "I had to check out my competition."

Clark nearly chokes on his bread, reaching for his own water and downing it. "Your competition?"

"I know it's uncommon for a president to date," Lex starts. He rubs his forehead. "Okay, it's practically unheard of—it happened _once_ —but I don't want to wait eight more years."

"So...this _is_ a date?" Clark asks.

"Do you want it to be?"

Clark opens his mouth, but he can't form words.

"I realize it's been a long time," Lex continues, "but I understood that you and I...that we were...close."

"Yeah," Clark agrees. "We were like brothers."

"From what they told me..." Lex fidgets with his cuff link. "...it sounded like we might have been closer than that."

"Oh!" Clark exclaims, realizing where Lex is going with this. His cheeks flush. "No. We never were."

"I see," Lex says. He drops his gaze to the tablecloth. "I apologize for presuming. I just thought—"

"I didn't mean..." Clark says hurriedly. "I was only fifteen when we met. When I was finally old enough, you got sick, and then...we just never got the chance."

"Would you be interested now?" Lex asks, raising his eyes back up to meet Clark's. The expression is so unlike any he's seen Lex wear before, uncertain and afraid.

"I—" Clark begins. His heart is beating so hard that it's audible. "I think so."

"We'd have to keep it under wraps," Lex says. "The public would have a field day with the idea of me dating, let alone me dating a man."

"Makes sense," Clark says.

"That would give us time to move slowly, get to know each other again. For me to get to know you for the first time."

"I haven't really dated anyone since Lois." Clark takes a deep breath and then smiles. "Slow sounds good."

Lex smiles in return, then concentrates on the menu. When the food arrives, Clark is preoccupied with the notion that Lex wants him. He's living one of his fifteen-year-old fantasies. He barely tastes the chicken parm or the chocolate cake Lex orders. He hears himself mention a photo album which he forgot at his apartment, wondering if it sounds like a cheap come on, but Lex suggests he come back to Clark's place. Did he make his bed this morning? There are a least two days' worth of dishes in the sink. Maybe it isn't a great idea for Lex to come over tonight, but he's looking at Clark over the rim of his glass, just like he used to, and Clark can't refuse him.

***

"Nice place," Lex says, glancing sideways at Clark while the agents sweep the apartment for bugs or explosives or...whatever.

"Thanks," Clark says, bumping him with his shoulder. Lex bumps him back. They both start snickering, and Clark has a flashback to stargazing in the barn.

The agents give the all clear and go to stand watch in the hallway. Lex loosens his tie and falls back on the couch.

"I miss relaxing," he says. "I never get to relax."

"Don't you go up to Camp David?"

"Too busy," Lex says, "but I'm thinking of going up in June."

Clark points to the photo album on the table. "I meant to bring this with me to dinner," he says.

"I'm glad you forgot it," Lex says, reaching to pick it up. He begins to thumb through, glancing up at Clark and then to the empty space on the couch beside him. Clark sits, placing a hand on each knee. Lex points to a picture of them in the Kents' kitchen.

"That's my parents' house. You were probably twenty in that one," Clark says.

"I wore a lot of purple," Lex comments as he turns the page.

"You said it was royal."

"I sounded like a brat." Lex shifts, and his left leg just touches Clark's right. At eighteen, Clark would have wondered if Lex did it intentionally. As an adult, Clark knows he did. Tentatively, he shifts his hand to Lex's knee and leans so he has a better view of the pictures.

"Well," Clark says, relaxing slightly, "maybe a bit."

Lex turns another page. "What's with the suits?"

"Private opening of a museum exhibit," Clark answers. "Alexander the Great."

"Are you sure we weren't dating?"

Clark laughs. "Pretty sure. Actually, at that time, I had a thing for your ex wife."

"She doesn't want to meet me," Lex says, "but we did talk on the phone. She sounds sweet."

"She is," Clark agrees. "I can't...I can't be around her physically anymore, but we write each other sometimes. She's a good friend."

"Why can't you be around her?"

Sighing, Clark sits back and squeezes Lex's leg. "There are a lot of things about you, which I'll tell you if you really want to know, but I'd rather not."

"Was I really that bad?" Lex asks.

Clark doesn't answer. Lex frowns and bites his lower lip, nodding slowly.

"Why were you willing to see me?" he asks after a minute.

"You called Superman," Clark says gently.

"And if I'd called _you_?"

"I don't know." Clark rubs the back of his neck. "I probably would have met up with you. My mom always said I forgave you too easily."

"I'm glad," Lex says. He's still staring at the photos, but he's not really looking at them.

"Hey," Clark says, taking the book from him and setting it on the coffee table. "You're not that guy anymore. You don't ever have to be that guy again."

He takes Lex's left hand and holds it between his. They're quiet for a long time.

"Have I ever kissed you?" Lex murmurs.

Clark shakes his head. Lex wraps fingers around Clark's tie and pulls him forward until their mouths just touch. In his chest, Clark's heart is pounding. He reaches a hand to Lex's face and cradles it, opening his mouth when Lex does. He's imagined this a thousand times, how it would feel to kiss Lex. He used to fantasize about it in high school, about kissing Lex up against the side of his Porsche or pressing him back on the desk in his office. He'd dream about them concealed among the hay bales, about miles of Lex's pale skin beneath Clark's hands, about running his lips over Lex's scalp.

They end up lying on the couch, Lex half on top of him, his tie on the floor. His hands snake under Clark's shirt and up his sides. Clark is careful not to hold him too tightly, but a part of him wants to brand Lex into his skin. Lex's voice is a hot, melancholy whisper in his ear.

"I would give anything to remember you."

***

Martha guesses something is up when Clark calls her a few weeks later.

"You sound chipper," she says. He hears her office door close. "Are you back together with Lois?"

"No, mom."

"How are things at work?"

"They're okay," Clark says. "Busy."

"I'd imagine," she says. "Are you seeing anyone?"

He pauses a second too long, because he can hear her grin through the phone.

"Is it serious?"

"Possibly," he answers. He doesn't want to jinx it.

"Is it someone from work?" she asks.

"Not exactly," he says. Technically, he and the president do work together on occasion, but that's not what she's asking.

"Is it someone I know?"

"Yes," Clark answers through a sigh.

"Chloe?"

"She's still married, mom."

"Oh, that's right. She always sends me a Christmas card. Well, I suppose it couldn't be Lana," she says.

"No."

"Why don't you just tell me?"

"It's more fun to listen to you guess," Clark says with a small laugh.

"I'm about to start naming everyone I remember from Smallville," she teases. "Come on. Give your old mother a hint."

"Fine," he says, lying flat on the couch and staring up at the ceiling. He needs to clean away the cobwebs. "This person actually lives in your neck of the woods."

"Oh?" she says. He can practically hear the gears in her head turning. "Is she in politics?"

"That's all I'm saying."

"Honestly, Clark, the only friend of yours that I know in Washington is Lex, and that's just..." She laughs. "I'll ask Conner tonight at dinner. Maybe he can think of someone."

"How is he?"

"Growing up too quickly," she says. "He's going to intern for me this summer."

"Future politician, huh?"

"Maybe," she says. She lowers her voice. "You're being safe, right?"

"Mother..."

"It's my job to worry."

"I'm an adult," he says, knocking a fist playfully against the wall. It doesn't dent. Much.

"When do I get to meet her?"

"In about seven years," Clark answers with another sigh.

"That's an unusually long courtship," she replies. "Okay, I can take a hint. You'll let me know when you're ready."

"I will."

"I'll bake a pie for the occasion."

"Bribery won't get you a name," Clark tells her, "but that'll be great."

"I've got to run," she says, "but thanks for calling, honey. I'll talk to you soon. Fly and see me sometime, won't you?"

***

Despite almost daily phone calls, video chats, and a few stolen kisses on the rooftop of the White House, Clark is shaking in Superman's boots when he touches down at Camp David in early June. It's past one in the morning, and the retreat is shrouded in the privacy of darkness. Lex greets him at the door with a hand on Clark's waist and a slow kiss that they continue through to a couch in front of a fire, which smoulders and casts the room into an orange glow. Lex's mouth tastes bitter. Clark spots a blanket balled up on the other side of the couch and realizes Lex is wearing a silk night shirt and pants. He's been sleeping.

"I woke you up," Clark murmurs.

"I missed you," Lex says against his mouth. The television is on mute. Clark switches it off, and Lex turns on his lap so he's straddling Clark's legs. They kiss for what feels like ages, and then Lex begins to pause longer and longer between movements, his hands eventually stilling.

Within minutes, Lex is asleep against his chest. Clark pulls the blanket over both of them and closes his eyes, stroking Lex's arms until the fire dies completely. He yawns and opens his eyes to slivers, glancing about the moonlit room. It's sort of like a lodge, with a stone facade surrounding the fireplace. Lex shifts against him. Outside, insects chirp steadily. The arm of the couch is digging uncomfortably into his lower back. Clark nuzzles the side of Lex's face.

"Where's the bedroom?" he whispers. Lex half-motions to a hallway. Clark stands and easily carries him.

"I'm capable of walking," Lex mutters against his shoulder but tightens his arms around Clark's neck.

They've never slept in the same room. Clark lays him on the bed and steps out of his uniform. He hasn't brought a change of clothes, he realizes, and paws blindly in a drawer until he comes up with a pair of shorts. They're snug, but he pulls them on and climbs in beside Lex, who rolls over and rests his face against Clark's neck. Clark is smiling when he begins to drift.

In the morning, Lex brings him coffee in bed, and they drink it while watching the news. Lex toes his calf under the sheets, and he's slumped against Clark's side, sipping.

"Sorry I fell asleep on you last night," Lex says after he's more alert. "I had a whole seduction scene planned."

"We were both tired," Clark says, setting his mug aside, "but I'd be interested to hear what you had in mind."

None of Clark's teenage fantasies compare to the feel of Lex's naked body sliding against his, to the sounds Lex chokes out when Clark wraps a hand around him for the first time. Clark's never done this with a guy before, but he knows what feels good to him. From the way Lex bites his lip and gasps, Clark can tell it's working. He kisses Lex fiercely, pressing their foreheads together when Lex begins to chant, "Just like that, just like that..."

"You like this?" Clark asks with a turn of his wrist.

"Not at all," Lex manages and bites Clark's lower lip.

***

They stay at Camp David for three days and get dressed once. Lex has Angela hold all but the most important phone calls, and they spend almost every minute together. It's easily the best weekend of Clark's life.

After that, it's harder. Lex is in China for a week, and then his people want him to start campaigning, even though he's not even into his second year in office. He's attending town meetings all over the southwest, which means he's staying in hotels. It would be too obvious if Superman showed up everywhere the president happened to be staying. They'll only get away with the "extra security" excuse for so long before an unscrupulous desk clerk sells a picture of them to the tabloids.

When they meet, it's strictly in an official capacity or at night. Lex calls, and when he can't call, he texts. Angela is afraid the phone might get hacked and the messages leaked, so she insists they keep it professional.

>> All's quiet in Metropolis.

>> Glad to hear it. Lunch soon?

>> Sounds great.

***

Clark visits his mother for a week in Washington in late September. She's still puzzling over who he could be dating, pursing her mouth as she thinks and waits for the pasta water to boil.

"And you're certain it's someone I know?" she says, wiping her hands on an apron.

"I can guarantee it," he says.

"And it's someone I'd remember?"

He chuckles. "I don't think this is someone you could ever forget."

"How did the two of you meet?" she says, coming to stand across the island from him.

"We met as kids," Clark answers, leaning his elbows on the counter, "though I don't really remember that, so I guess you can say we met...by accident."

Her eyebrows raise. "By accident?"

"Um... _car_ accident," he clarifies, and he holds her gaze. Her mouth opens and closes, then opens again.

"Oh!" she exclaims finally. She covers her mouth with her hand and doesn't speak for a minute. "You know, I always wondered."

He presses his lips together and nods.

"But honey, are you sure this is a good idea, after everything he put you through?"

"He doesn't remember any of it," Clark says firmly. "Until he asks me to tell him, I want it to stay that way."

She comes around the island to sit beside him and inhales deeply. Her forehead is criss-crossed with wrinkles when she frowns.

"Are you going to tell him about Conner?"

"I don't know," Clark admits.

"Genetically, he's your...son. Lex's too."

"How do I tell him that without telling him the rest of what he did?"

"You were always so protective of him," she says, shaking her head.

He shrugs. "I'll tell him when he asks me," he repeats.

She pours herself a generous glass of wine and holds it to her lips. He watches her consume half of it, his face reddening the longer she takes to speak again. He wonders what his father would say if he were alive, if his mom is thinking about that right now. She pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out a breath.

"You're really going to make me wait seven years to see you get married again?" she says finally, and Clark laughs and slings an arm around her shoulders.

"Well," he says, "give or take."

***

Martha bakes Lex a cherry pie for Christmas, which Clark hand delivers to him just before midnight.

"I thought Santa Claus was the one on rooftops tonight," Lex teases. "Can you stay?"

Clark shakes his head. "There's always something going on in Metropolis tonight," he says. "I've probably missed a couple calls flying out here."

"Your mother is a saint," Lex says, accepting the pie in both hands. "Please tell her thank you for me."

"She wants to have you over for dinner," Clark says, "but I told her it might need to wait."

"I'll invite her around for lunch," Lex says. "Why didn't she deliver this herself?"

"I wanted an excuse to see you," Clark says, pulling Lex against him. "Merry Christmas."

***

Lex has just returned from Russia and decided on an emergency vacation. It's early spring. Clark hasn't been to the penthouse in years, but it looks about the same as he remembers it. He knows the kitchen layout better than Lex does and makes popcorn while he talks with Conner about coming to stay for a few weeks.

"Conner, he's your brother?" Lex asks, his head resting on Clark's shoulder when they're again sprawled on the leather couch. He pauses the movie and shifts so he can look Clark in the face.

It was inevitable that Lex would ask this, just as it was inevitable that he would call a year ago. Clark tightens his hold on Lex's hand and remembers what he told his mother. _I'll tell him when he asks me._ Secrets destroyed their friendship once. Clark won't do that again.

"He's a clone," Clark says quietly, pulling Lex tighter against him.

"Of you?" Lex asks.

"Partially." Clark swallows. "You combined our DNA."

Lex is silent for a long time, and Clark wonders if he's fallen asleep when he feels Lex's fingers curl into his shirt.

"I'd like to meet him sometime," he says. "Maybe when it's warmer, we can all do something. Maybe see a baseball game."

Clark leans his cheek against the top of Lex's head. "I bet he'd like that."

***

It's a Tuesday morning at the White House. Clark rises before the sun and tugs on his uniform. He brushes his teeth in the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face to help wake up, and yawns his way back into the bedroom. He flops onto the mattress and watches Lex's eyes flutter open.

"I hate that you always have to leave so early," Lex says across the pillow. He reaches out a hand and touches Clark's arm.

"It's only for six more years," Clark says. "Then you'll have to put up with me every day."

Lex laughs and brushes the hair from Clark's forehead. His hand stills.

"I look forward to it," he says. He has pillowcase marks on his cheek. Clark touches one and traces his fingers lightly over Lex's cheekbone, watching as Lex's mouth curves into a smile. "Thank you, Clark," he says.

"For what?"

"For all of this," Lex says. Clark smiles and leans over to kiss him.

"I'll call you tonight," he promises.

"Good."

"Go back to sleep."

Closing his eyes, Lex nods and buries deeper in the covers. Clark kisses him one last time and heads for the rooftop. The sun is barely up, but the air is already growing warm. Clark can still feel Lex's fingers on his skin, hear the even rhythm of his breathing. One day, maybe not too far from now, morning will be made of this: of them making coffee, of Clark rubbing Lex's shoulders while he gripes at political talk shows, of showers for two. He'll wait a lifetime for that morning, when there's no longer a reason to say goodbye.

It might happen one day. For now, Clark takes a deep breath and leaps. 


End file.
